


the first (not the last)

by forpeaches (bluecarrot)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crossdressing, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Genderbending, Kissing, Non-Graphic Violence, squire au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-14 18:02:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20605013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/forpeaches
Summary: Jaime needs a squire — and who does he choose?a chaste-ish little one-shot involving cross-dressing (Brienne), some dirty words (mostly Jaime), and a number of insinuations.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written 11 September 2019.

_You must look among the pages and find a squire, _his father had said. _You will, _when Jaime complained._ It is your duty._

There was always duty, clanking along behind the gifts of money and family. And was he to be chained to it his entire life?

The pageboys were as small and untried as they always were, looking nervous and pale beneath their tans, as he looked them over.

Jaime had never been that young.

They all looked ... unsuitable. He went down the line, disgregarding each one. Too thin, too fat, too short, too tall. This one was smiling; this one was grim. He didn’t like any of them.

He stopped at the last boy on the end, more for lack of options than any real reason. The lad was uncommonly tall. “You — what is your name?”

“Brien,” said the lad. “Brien Storm.”

_Storm_ wasn’t a name they heard often. “How does a bastard come to Kings Landing?”

“Same as highborns, ser. By ship and horse and foot.” The boy kept his eyes down when he spoke, but his cheeks flushed red: he knew he was being insolent and did it anyway.

“Can you use a sword? Sit a horse — properly? Fetch and clean and cook and hunt and kill, if needed?”

A nod.

“You are very sure.”

Another nod.

Jaime thought over the matter for an entire second — considered his father’s face when he chose an untried boy as heedless and sure as Jaime had been himself at that age — and managed not to laugh aloud. “You’ll do for me. The rest of you, go and practice. You’ll have a chance this afternoon. Brien, come!”

*

He wanted to see how the boy moved on his own, away from the company of his fellows. So he put Brien through the paces and watched til the watching grew dull, stopping him with a word. “So. Tell me. How did you learn to fight?

“My father had me trained awhile, ser.”

“Your father?”

“I lived with him.”

“He claimed you?”

Hesitation. “No. But he kept me and raised me.”

“An odd man,” said Jaime. “Was he a lord? Do I know him?”

“No, ser.”

Odd again: why was the boy lying? “Do you enjoy rooming among the others? I’ll have you moved closer to me in the White Tower, but perhaps we can arrange something to your liking, if you are especially close to one or two of the others ...”

“No,” said Brien. His voice was tight. “I mean — no, ser. Thank you. I will live wherever it’s best to put me.” He sat down and began to loosen the padded jerkin, worn for sparring practice: it was heavy leather, meant to ape the weight of armor as much as to protect the wearer, and the boy sweat beneath it.

“You liked none of them?”

“They did not like me.”

“Why not?”

“Because ...”

“Speak freely,” said Jaime. “What do I care of boy’s squabbles?”

“They dislike me because I’m better than them. Stronger and taller and better.”

“Practice and training will do that.”

“No,” said Brien, looking and sounding het up. “Beg pardon ser, but that isn’t why. They hate me because I’m _good_. You know how some people seem to understand without being taught —“

Yes. Jaime knew that.

“I work hard, and I love it — I _do_. I won’t stop. It doesn’t matter what people say — it doesn’t _matter —”_

“People will always hate you for being better than them. I was the youngest knight in a generation and yes, there were enough envious eyes. And words, too. But what does that matter? If you love it, if you need it, let it carry you.”

Simple enough to give advice: living it was harder. But Brien’s chin lifted. “Yes. I know that.”

Gods, his eyes were blue — a shocking pure color, like the sky at midday.

Jaime felt queer. But he only said: “I think that maybe you do.”

“And — and — you’ll have me, ser? You’ll keep me on to squire?”

“Why not?” said Jaime, and gave his best public smile. 

*

Jaime knocked once and entered his squire’s room to find the boy half-dressed, clutching a tunic against his sparse frame.

“Up,” said Jaime. “Saddle the horses. We’re to Casterly Rock.”

Brien seemed frozen. “With — with you? Alone? I mean —“

“Of course with me. It won’t be terribly long. A week, perhaps two.” No need to explain his father’s ridiculous whim that a Lannister be in the damned place every season to look things over, as if the stone walls would collapse without a stern eye.

“Yes, ser.”

  
*

  
The trip usually seemed shorter, Jaime thought; but his traveling companions usually strung together more than two words at a time.

  
*

  
Home.

Jaime was hot and tired and irritable, the dust of the road seemed to collect in every crease of his skin and scratch him there, and his squire was not as competent in cleaning and tidying clothes as one could like.

Brien would learn — he was quick to learn and quick to obey and kept quiet most of the time, which was a blessing only appreciated by contrast.

Jaime briefly considered what Tyrion would have been as a squire, and let himself smile. (Failing that, what must his father have been like? A tiny Tywin, all sour face and determination? No, no: it was too much to bear when he felt like this.)

He went into the little, dimly-lit baths and shut the door.

Someone squeaked.

Brien, sneaking a wash. No wonder he sounded scared: squires had to make do with bathing in the river, or begging a pitcher of water and a cloth from the kitchen-wenches. The hot baths were not meant for such as him.

Another knight would have him cuffed or worse for this, but what did Jaime care? He said, sitting down to remove his boots: “Calm yourself. I’m only here to bathe, same as you.”

There was splashing. “Ser, I’ll leave you to enjoy the waters alone, if you would be so good as to give me over my towel — it’s next to the far end.”

“Nevermind. No need to flee. You may stay. You’re no trouble to me. The only thing I want is to be clean.”

“Ser ...”

He was down to tunic and smalls, now; and now he stripped off those as well. “Do I look like a raper? Have I made an attempt on you?” Your purity, he almost said: but a squire’s virginity (or lack of) was none of his business.

“No, my lord.”

“Then please hold your tongue. All I want is water and quiet.”

“Yes, ser.” And Brien sank in the water to his neck — and was modest enough to shut his wide, blue eyes when Jaime came in the bath — after one quick glance.

They rested in a companionable silence for some time, and every time Jaime looked over Brien was staring at him.

It should have made him uneasy and did not — but still, he couldn’t suss out the expression. It wasn’t resentment or slavish devotion or sexual interest. It was ... what?

Mistrust. Brien looked like he’d been offered a gift and didn’t know what was inside. A grasshopper or a scorpion?

It didn’t seem to be worth commenting on just now, not when the world was so warm and he felt so meltingly calm ...

Then the door opened: and Ser Bors came in.

Jaime opened one eye, in time to see Bors clambor inside the pool — slightly too close.

Brien sank back down, so only his smooth chin was visible.

Bors squinted. “Is this your squire? What is he doing?”

“Bathing,” said Jaime, shortly. “Same as you.”

Bors started to laugh. “Don’t raise a blister, Lannister. I don’t care where you put it.” He leaned back and sighed. “Boy, fetch me that pitcher.”

The squire didn’t move.

Jaime said: “Go and get it, Brien.”

“I can’t, ser.”

Bors was not a man known for gentleness, and now his face turned red with fury. “Can’t? You can’t? Are your legs broke, or cut off?”

“I will get it, ser. -- no, leave the boy alone. I will chastize him myself.” And Jaime got out, fetching over the pitcher so Bors could rinse out his hair.

“Your lord father will hear of this, ser Jaime.”

Jaime inclined his head.

They were silent then, while Bors washed himself and rinsed off and got out (still mumbling), and dried, and dressed, and left.

Jaime let the door shut. He said “Get out of the water.”

“I can’t, ser. Believe me, if I could —“

“Rise, or go home,” said Jaime. “This is your last chance.”

Brien bit his lip, stood up, and climbed out of the baths.

He stood in front of Jaime: naked and dripping and altogether a woman.

Jaime tried to speak and could not; he tried to think and could not. Fumbling, stupid, he got out and found a set of towels and thrust one at his squire, wrapping himself in the other. “Here. Cover yourself.”

She was wrapped up in an instant. “Please don’t send me home.”

“Oh, _now_ you have a home? _Brien Storm_ indeed. What is your real name?”

“Brienne,” said the miserable girl. “Of Tarth.”

“Tarth? Tarth. You’re — you’re the lord’s daughter, the one who disappeared ...”

“He wanted me to give up and marry and I ran away, I dressed like a boy and found a ship and —“

“Why here? Why Kings Landing? Why me?”

“You’re the best one there is,” said Brienne, lately of Tarth. “You’re the youngest knight —“

“Why didn’t you tell anyone? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“They would send me back — you would have! And I won’t be sent home. I _won’t_. I won’t go back there to be wed and bed and never pick up a sword again, I want to learn, I want to fight —“

This was more than Brien — Brienne — had said about himself in all the time since they’d met. “Alright. Alright. Stop. Are you _crying_?”

She wiped at her face, looking angry and scared. “Please don’t send me back. Please don’t write to my father. _Please_. I’m good at this, I’m good enough to be knighted — you haven’t complained of me, have you? I’m learning so much, please don’t tell him I’m here ...”

Jaime didn’t answer.

He was thinking of a seven-year-old Cersei, given a new dress and an embroidery hoop and a golden needle on her nameday — while Jaime got his first sword and lessons in _strike, parry, step, block._

He was thinking of her red face when he went to battle at sixteen — and seventeen — and eighteen — while she stayed behind to drink wine and wait, and wait.

He was thinking of how she’d cried when her marriage to Robert was announced. _What about Jaime?_ she’d said to their father. _If I am old enough, surely he is —_

_Jaime is not my daughter, he is my heir, _said Tywin. _He will marry when I tell him to marry. I am telling you now._

And that was that.

He raised his eyes.

Brienne had not moved. Water pooled around her feet, her arms were crossed beneath her breasts, and the towel hid the rest — although he’d seen it, and there was no going back.

Her eyes were clear and bright and angry.

She’d been telling the truth. If he denounced her, she wouldn’t return to Tarth. She would ... what?

He doubted even Brienne knew the anwer to that.

He said: “I will allow you to continue to squire for me on one condition.”

“What is it?”

She was so intractable that he almost smiled: but no. “You must write to your father. Tell him where you are.”

“Ser Jaime, I’ve told you ...”

“He deserves to know where you are, and that you are safe,” said Jaime. “Every parent deserves to know that much.”

Easy enough to say. Brienne weighed it. “You’ll keep my secret?”

He nodded. “And you remember that if it comes out, I never knew.”

She licked her lips. “You won’t — hurt me? Mistreat me?”

“You’ll be caned for disobeying ser Bors, but that would happen to a lad just the same.” She would have to take down her smalls for it, though. He thought of her naked, thought of someone else’s eyes and hands on her body, and decided. “I’ll do it myself.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“The pain won’t be any less.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to be easy on me. I wouldn’t _want_ you to.”

He stared at her a moment, then jerked his chin. “Get dressed, lad — lass. _Brien_. You won’t do anything foolish?”

“No more than usual, ser,” said Brienne.

And Jaime smiled.

  
*

  
Jaime whipped his squire, and she bore it without complaint.

Then they went to the mews.

Brienne scrawled a message to her father — _Acting squire for ser Jaime at Kings Landing; will write again soon — _and sent it off on the black wings of a raven.

“All right, now?” she said. “Am I forgiven for wanting to stay?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Jaime said: and grinned at her. “How’s the arse?”

“I won’t sit down for a week.”

“I expect so. At least you didn’t yell about it, which is more than I can say for some boys I could mention. Did I ever tell you about the time Father caught me jumping from the cliffs at Casterly Rock?”

“Did you yell when he beat _you_, ser?”

“I was as melodic as a cat making love in the alley.”

Together they went to supper — which Brienne ate standing.

  
*

  
“Are you getting along any better with the others?”

“No.”

“Mind the grain when you’re polishing that. Why don’t they like you?”

“Because I squire for you,” said Brienne, scrubbing the leather correctly this time.

“Not ...” Jaime hesitated. They were alone: but still he didn’t like to say her real name, or speak aloud her secret. There were ears everywhere.

“No,” she said. “Not that.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” she said, tightly. “I would know.”

  
*

  
Tywin, true to form, did not waste time in confronting his son. “What is this I hear of your squire being a girl?”

Jaime gave his blankest stare; he’d perfected it as a child. “What do you mean? Brien’s no girl.”

“I’ll not take any more of your games. Did you know it when you accepted her on?”

“No.”

“But you’ve know it for some time. And you did nothing?”

“What should I have done? She works as hard or harder than the rest of them, and she is better. Would you have me squired by one of those lazy shit-for-brains sent by the little lordlings?”

“I would like you to think for one minute in your life about the meaning of propriety.”

Jaime rolled his eyes. “She is strong and capable and she’d made a damn good knight some day, if she weren’t a girl. Who cares?”

“I care,” said Tywin. “Her father cares.”

So Lord Tarth had sent a raven to Lord Tywin.

That was a consequence Jaime ought to have forseen, really.

“Are you really saying you would prefer me to go without a squire, or train up some lackwit, so Selwyn Tarth can marry off his daughter to some useless man who only wants her for her maidenhead?”

His own father stared — and oh, he had a gimlet gaze. “You seem to care what happens to her.”

“Of course I care. She’s my squire.”

“She is not an appropriate match for a Lannister,” said Tywin, who had a marvelous ability to sound as though he was clenching his jaw even when he was not. “Don’t even consider it.”

“Will you let her stay on if I promise earnestly to be a good boy and never, never fuck her?”

His father did not find this funny. “She is your squire, much as I dislike it. I cannot send her away or I would have already done so, and you know it. But you will not _bed_ her, you will not _marry_ her, and for gods’ sake you will not _knight_ her. She will finish her term and be sent home. Am I understood?”

He was understood.

And whatever ideas it sparked in Jaime, he kept to himself.

  
*

When she came the the sparring yards with a split lip, broken nose, and bruised knuckles, Jaime did not ask questions.

Instead he called the other squires. “In a line, boys. Brien — you stand to the side.”

They stood furious, mutinous, silent. One had a half-formed black eye; another had a purpling bruise on his jawline.

Jaime smiled. “Is there some problem?”

Someone — Jaime didn’t see who it was — said “He’s a _girl_.”

“What of it? Brien fights as well as a man, — which is more than can be said of the rest of you. It’s not a cock or a set of balls that makes a swordsman.”

They weren’t listening. He saw that.

Brienne shifted on her feet.

Jaime said: “Very well. Come and fight her — one at a time, this is not a fucking melee. If Brien loses, she’s gone. If she stays, you will apologize and accept her and fight for her, with her, as you would anyone.”

Some of the boys squirmed. Some of them smirked.

One stepped forward. “I cry your pardon. I meant you no wrong.”

She nodded at him, just a short jerk of her head.

“Anyone else?”

No, there was no one else. Whether they were more wary of being made a fool or of the length and strength of her arms, it was unclear: but no one stepped forward.

Jaime hadn’t expected anyone at all. “Very well. You,” jerking his chin at the boy with the black eye.

“Ser —!”

“You’ll fight Brien or you’ll fight me. And that goes for the rest of you.”

One by one they picked up a sword; one by one she knocked them down. Jaime let her rest a minute between each, and he himself brought her water, but when he saw her red-faced and sweating, he only said to her: “Five more to go.”

Then there were four — and three — and finally only one. He was slim and wirey and strong, he had a bruise on his jawline, and he’d had hours to watch her closely and take notice of her flaws, how her blocks grew more and more sloppy: but at last he too took a blow to his shoulder that knocked him down.

He spit in the dirt and stood up again.

“Enough,” said Jaime. “Say your words and get out of my sight.”

“Cry pardon,” said the boy, through gritted teeth.

“Go.”

He picked up the sword and went to leave — but from the edge of the yard and behind Jaime’s back he mouthed something that must have been bitch or cunt or whore, because Brienne flinched, and her proud, tired expression dropped into grief.

Jaime went to the boy, caught him by the shoulder, and struck him across the face hard enough that he stumbled and spit in the dirt again; this time it was laced in blood, and his nose dripped down unto his tunic.

“Go to the hall and get your things. You’ll be on a wagon home by dusk, or much worse will happen. Do you understand?”

He understood.

Back at the yard, Brienne was on her knees and vomiting into the bushes. Jaime waited: and when she was finished, he gave her water to rinse out her mouth.

  
*

His palms were sweating. Ridiculous. He cleared his throat, to announce his presence. “Brienne?”

She was seated in the sunlight, darning the torn wool on a doublet, and apologized for not rising. “I can’t, without overturning all this here.”

“You don’t need to do that work for me.”

“It’s yours,” she said. “I’m your squire. This is my work.”

“I came to speak with you about that,” said Jaime. “About being my squire. Usually this is in front of — but I wanted to speak with you privately, first.”

Her face went red, her gaze dropped away; methodically she began to tidy the felting-needles and scissors and spare bits of wool. “Yes, ser.”

Jaime rubbed his face. “Not every squire stays on to be a knight, you know that. Not even most of them.”

“I know.”

“And frankly, I’m not sure what to do with you. There aren’t any female knights. Women-knights.”

“I know that, ser. I know.”

Was she crying?

“I don’t know ... I don’t know if you’d want to be the first.”

Her head jerked up: her face drained of color. “What? What did you say?”

His throat felt tight. “It can’t be so much a shock to you as all that. You’ve bested everyone else in practice, nearly every day — you’ve knocked me down more than once —“

“Ser,” and she stood up now. Was she trembling? “You’re not lying to me?”  
  
“If I do this, they’ll call you a whore. They’ll say you earned it on your back — not through fighting and skill. Every man will raise an arm against you and think he’s better, just from what’s between his legs. You understand?”

“They’d say that anyway,” she said. Her voice was almost dreamy and she wore a strange, small smile. He doubted she knew she was smiling. “They have been saying it. What does it matter what people say?”

There were so many answers to this: but Jaime was staring at her mouth. That tiny curve brought out the fullness, it changed her expression from dour to glad, and it made him want to — what?

Nevermind.

“Thank you, ser,” she said. “Thank you.”

He took a deep breath — he couldn’t look away from her face. That mouth; those eyes. “Jaime. My name is Jaime.”

“Thank you, Jaime,” she said: and she smiled at him.

He felt warm, and glad, and sort of tingling: and he couldn’t stop smiling at her. “You’re welcome, ser Brienne.”

And she blushed, sweetly pink.


	2. Chapter 2

After an unpleasantly Brienne-less breakfast, Jaime found her in her new rooms, sitting on the cot and staring at her hands.

“Knights are permitted to eat,” he told her. “Even lady knights.”

“Father wrote me. He wants me to come home.”

“So?”

“He wants me to _come home,_” said Brienne. “I’m his daughter. How can I tell him no?”

“You didn’t worry about it when you ran away.”

She rubbed her hand across her eyes. “I was angry. I was upset. I was a _child_. What am I doing in Kings Landing? I’d do better as a hedge knight or a sellsword. At least then I’d be helping people ...”

“Helping people ... killing them for money ... Not much difference, really.”

She drew up her legs and rested her chin on her knees. “Have you done any real good as a knight?”

Jaime sat down next to her, carefully; he was very conscious of his skin. “Truthfully? No. Mostly it’s standing around, looking impressive and threatening.” And the occasional battle.

She didn’t answer.

“You’re not really going to go back to Tarth.”

Was she?

She didn’t answer.

“You’re no coward.”

No reply.

He bumped her with his shoulder. “Don’t tell me I wasted my time training you up from nothing. You, an urchin. A street rat. Uncouth, unpracticed. Always getting into fights.”

She turned to him, frowning. “Those weren’t my fault.”

“No,” said Jaime. “They weren’t.” And then he was close and she was close and oh _fuck it._

He leaned in and kissed her.

Brienne jumped off the bed like someone was trying to set her on fire. 

Then she backhanded Jaime across the face. She said: “Don’t do that again.”

“I’m sorry.” Paltry apology for doing something he’d sworn to himself that he would never never do.

“You should be.”

“I am. I wronged you and I cry your pardon.”

“You’re sorry now, because I hit you,” she said, looking ready to do it again. “Because you know I’ll gut you if you try worse.”

“No,” said Jaime. “_No_. I should have asked. It was — thoughtless. Truly. I saw you and I wanted and I didn’t think. It won’t happen any more.”

“I will hurt you, next time. I — I don’t know that I could stop you — but you would come away with scars all over that pretty face. And maybe less an eye or two.”

Jaime shut both of his pretty eyes. “Brienne. Listen to me. I’ve never, — never. Not with any unwilling woman or even an unsure one. And I won’t with you.” He laughed. “I’d be a fool to try. You beat me in the ring half the time.”

“More than that.”

“Three out of five,” said Jaime: and her lip curved up just the smallest bit.

*

“Ser Brienne — a word?”

Her face was set, but she followed him.

“Have I offended you?”

“No.”

“Are you angry with me?”

“No.”

“Then why are you treating me like — like we are strangers? Or enemies? Brienne, I apologized and won’t do it again. I don’t know how else to make this up to you. Would you like to beat me purple with a tourney sword? Would that do it?”

“No,” she said. “I’m not upset.”

This was so patently unbelievable that Jaime actually rolled his eyes, a habit forcibly trained out of him in childhood. “Please.”

“It’s only — I just — why did you do it? I’m not beautiful, I’m not,” she gestured at her breasts, “I’m tall and gawky and plain —”

“Because I wanted to!” He was yelling. He stopped. “I’ve wanted that for a long time — no, stop arguing. I certainly have thought of it.” He would not be explicit, he was speaking to a lady and a knight, she was _Brienne_; she didn’t want to know his crude fantasies. “I told myself not to touch you and I did it anyway and I am sorry.”

She was frowning.

He said: “I understand if you need to leave and live elsewhere. You might want to return to Tarth now, for all I know. But if you stay — I hope you _do_ stay — I don’t want this to come between us.”

She took a while to respond. “You’re not like other men.”

“No,” said Jaime, somewhat bitter. “There is only me.” 

* 

Jaime invited his former squire on the usual trip to Casterly.

“Only us?” said she.

“Who else?” said he.

* 

The Bloody Mummers found them.

They could not have won against either knight, fighting fair: but that was only incentive to cheat. And so one held an arrow to a string, pointing at Jaime: and so Brienne dropped her weapon.

*

They beat her until she was bleeding from it, and then started to argue about what or who came next. Hoat would be first; but who after? No honor among thieves, and agreements were hard to find.

Jaime, who was bleeding down his face from a broken nose, said thickly: “Her weight in gold if you set her free.”

Hoat laughed. “Gold’s awful nice stuff at that. Shiny. Smells good. Your father gives you enough of it, does he?”

“A fair amount.”

“Will he give us your weight, too?”

“Yes. Mine, and hers, and more. Only let us go.”

“Gold’s not the only satisfaction in life. Nor a cunt.” Hoat smiled. “Might be I could go for a little less gold and a bit more pleasure."

And Jaime was dimly aware that men were surrounding him, that Hoat called for a knife, that Brienne was saying something — and then his mind went white.

* 

They left them on the road, bleeding and still tied.

Hoat kept the hand. “I’ll be waiting for your end of the bargain,” he said. “Don’t you forget me, Lannister.”

Jaime did not reply. He was awake again, facedown in the dirt. He was trying not to scream or cry or shit himself.

Then someone touched him, and he did scream.

“It’s only me,” she said. “Don’t yell, don’t yell, hold still. It’s me. I’m getting your dagger.”

To kill him?

_Give me a clean death_, he’d said once. There was nothing clean about this.

“I need to cut myself free,” said Brienne: and she tied off his arm, too, in a tourniquet. “We have to get you home. Come on. Get up. I can’t carry you.”

He didn’t move.

“Jaime,” she said, sounding frightened, angry. “Up.”

Yes, ser.

He got one foot in the stirrup and she pushed him the rest of the way, and then they went home.

*

Wake.

Wake to darkness and pain, someone feeding him.

Wake to a cool hand on his forehead.

He flinched. “You didn’t need to do this.”

“Consider this my apology,” she said.

“For what?” said Jaime: but hit eyes shut then, the effort to speak was too much, and he fell back down into unconsciousness — but he thought he had felt the dry press of her mouth against his face.

Maybe it was a dream.

* 

“What’s the point?” he said to Tyrion, who at least could be trusted not to treat him like a helpless freak — even if he was. “Why am I here?”

“Revenge?” suggested Tyrion. “I appreciate a good bout of revenge, myself.”

“Remind me never to cross you.”

“Whereas I,” said his brother, “may now insult you with impunity. There’s no great loss without some gain, they do say.”

“The balance of gain and loss is unevenly distributed,” said Jaime.

“It always is.”

“What is the point?” he said to his father.

Tywin was implacable. “A competent swordsman would know how to use both hands.”

“Should I aspire to be merely competent? Perish the thought.”

“You should aspire to a great many things that have never seemed to interest you in the least. Perhaps this will persuade you to change your ways.”

“What,” he said to Brienne, “is the fucking _point_ of you coming here? I’m no knight anymore — not really. And you aren’t my squire.” No one was his squire anymore. He had declined that honour.

She seemed to think it over. “I hope we’re still friends.”

“Friends? Are we friends?”

“What would you call it?”

He stared at the place where his hand had been — as cold and final as that word, friends — and came to a choice. “I’d like to train with you. Learn to fight again. If you’ll have me.”

She cleared her throat. “It would be an honor.”

“Don’t thank me,” said Jaime, dark, “until you’ve seen how it goes.”

*

It did not go well.

  
She knocked him on his ass four times, —and when he didn’t get up at last she knelt by his head. “We don’t have to do this.”

He stood up, roughly pushing her away. “Again.”

Where would he be if Brienne pitied him? Who would he be?

“Jaime.”

“Again, ser.”

  
*

He healed slow. Too slow, he thought, but there was no hurrying it.

One day he disarmed her once and hit her with the blunt sword, hard enough to take Brienne her off her feet.

When he reached down to help her up, he saw her automatically stretch out her left hand.

His heart caught in his chest, Brienne’s eyes and smile, her very presence caught at him: but all he did was say “Ready?”

* 

The faintest knock on his door — he wouldn’t have heard it if he hadn’t been awake and out of bed, sitting in a chair and restlessly, relentlessly alone.

He unlatched the door and tried to ignore how his hand was shaking. It’s Tyrion, he told himself. It’s ser Antos. It’s some page.

She looked paler than he’d ever seen her: almost a ghost in the light.

“Ser,” he said.

“Ser,” she said.

It was hard to breathe, hard to think. “What happens now? Do I let you inside?”

A single nod.

Jaime did: and then he locked the door.

*

In the dark, beneath the furs, knowing no one was around to hear them, they whispered — because lovers whisper.

“I want to write your father.”

“And yours will murder you.”

“For what? You’re the daughter of a lord. Even a Lannister can’t argue with that pedigree.”

“I’m the child of a lesser lord on a tiny pokey island on the edge of the world. Lord Tywin expects you to marry some princess, or a queen.”

“So? I’ve been a disappointment since I lost my hand and dared to live past the shame. Cersei and Tyrion disappointed him at birth ... Brienne, would you even _want_ to wed me? We don’t need to. We can ... we can do this whenever you like. Every day, if you like. Several times a day.”

She laughed, soft and sure. “You think you’re that good?”

“I’d like to marry you,” said Jaime. “I want to stand up with you and ...”

“And watch me grow fat with your children? Then what? You haven’t thought this through. I know you haven’t. Where would we live?”

“Tarth.”

She was quiet a moment. “You’d miss your family. And your home.”

“You’ve missed yours long enough. Let someone else take a turn.”

“You don’t need to marry me to have me in your bed.”

“I know,” said Jaime. “That isn’t why I asked you.”

“I’m here because I want to be.”

“I know.” He kissed her again. “And I want you here. I don’t want you to question it, or doubt me. If you do get with child, I’ll want you here still. I’ve wanted you for years, I think. Brave,” and he kissed her mouth, “and strong,” he kissed her throat, “and honest” — kissing her breast — “and mine. _Only_ mine. Don’t you think so, Brienne?”

And she agreed.

**Author's Note:**

> i didn’t write it but they totally kiss and fall in love and possibly have babies?? and IT IS GREAT
> 
> *
> 
> i legit strained a muscle in my hand writing this.  
the things i do for love


End file.
